


Between The Lines Of Fear And Blame

by BrazenMonkey



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Deleted Scenes, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-11
Updated: 2014-03-11
Packaged: 2018-01-15 07:58:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1297351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrazenMonkey/pseuds/BrazenMonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My take on the deleted scene from 2x06 - or rather a story that could be behind it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between The Lines Of Fear And Blame

**Author's Note:**

> The deleted SanSan scene from Season 2 really left me wondering why they cut it - I found it awesome, especially the Hound's part.  
> I could not help but feel like he sounded hurt and desperate when he said "I'm a dog, remember?" - maybe because of a fight that had taken place between them earlier...?
> 
> Enjoy!

_In the darkness, everything is much more soft. The lack of light, the lack of colour and the concealing dimness render everything much less harsh. Even Sandor’s scars look more like a delicate pattern, Sansa muses, as she stretches like a cat, exhausted from their lovemaking. She sits up on his bed and lets her gaze wander over his impressive physique._

_“Ladies don’t stare.”_

_His voice is still a little bit more husky than usual and lacks his usual tone of command. Another thing the night softens, it seems._

_Sansa smiles a timid smile. “I don’t think I am still a proper lady.” She can practically hear his answering grin._

_Her fingers gently run over the thick muscles of his leg, following the lines to his flat but hard stomach. He makes a satisfied noise like a dog being scratched. Her cheeks fold into a sweet grin._

_Breaking their contact, he sits up and takes a long look at the woman in his bed. Her long cascades of hair almost cover her breast und her long elegant legs seem to stretch endlessly. The dip of her hips leads to the roundness of her chest in one soft curve._

_She is so beautiful it hurts. Too graceful for the likes of him. An agonizing reminder that she is not his to keep._

_Her cheeks redden under his scrutiny. “I’m all yours to enjoy.” Her smile is genuine and so carefree it pains him._

_“But for how long, little bird?”_

_Sansa rolls her eyes and hangs her head in frustration.”Why do you always have to bring that up? Why can’t we just stay here and –_ be _together.”_

_Sandor grunts from where he sits. “And then? We stay here together as you say, and wait for Joffrey to come and make you his queen? And then it’ll be him fucking you? Is that your plan?”_

_Her breathing intensifies with oppressed anger. “I will never give him what I give you. You ought to know.”_

_He laughs, but there is no happiness in it. “Is that what makes me special to you? That I was the one that made you bleed, the first one to take a bite of you?”_ I’d rather be the last one, too _, he adds silently._

_“Joffrey will make me bleed anyway, whether I am a maiden or not.”_

_Her hushed voice is thick with unshed tears and a terrible fear that is made even grander by the fact that it might as well be true. A foreign impulse pulls at his muscles, commanding him to comfort her and take her into his arms. But what good does it her to be comforted now, when he cannot always?_

_“You’re not meant to be here. You are meant for him and one day, he will come and collect his prize. I will not always be able to stand between you and him.” He says, avoiding her implication. He knows what the little shit is capable of, and just imagining what he might do with her makes Sandor’s blood boil._

_“And what should I do? Wait for my gallant knight to rescue me?” Her quivering words confirm his assumption that she is indeed now crying. Because of him, at least partly. And it makes him feel like a piece of shit._

_Her chest now heaves with a sob. “I don’t know what to do. All I want to do is stay here with you.”_

_Her silly ideas, again. When will she learn? “The world is not one of your songs, little bird. There are no happy endings.”_

_He feels the mattress shift beneath him as he sees her shadow hastily grabbing for her clothes. Without a word, her only accompanying noise shaking breaths she heaves, Sansa stark flees his chambers. It is the first time since they started seeing each other that she leaves on her own account – usually it is him reminding her that she needs to return to her room before the maids will come._

_Sandor throws himself back into the cushion. He is right, though, this is no fairy tale._

_In the fairy tales, the hero does not make his lady cry.  
_

* * *

 

The tears do not seem satisfied by ruining only one night. The next few days, Sansa can’t forget the hurt on Sandor’s face and the angry words that were spoken. She avoids him as much as she can, and she is _afraid,_ so afraid that anyone who sees the way she looks at him will immediately know. She wants to bury herself in his arms and beg his forgiveness, even though it is not her who did any wrong. But he doesn’t come to see her in the night, after the moon hangs high, as he is wont to do, not for one night, not for two, not for three.

The fourth night, she sets out to the godswoods to seek guidance, a vain attempt at help, since there is no-one else to turn to. But the tree remains silent and offers no help. Then again, did they ever answer?

Her steps take her back to the Keep and as she climbs the many stairs to her rooms, the forbidden tears crawl back to gather at the brink of her lashes and she quickens her steps to return to the little safety of her rooms.

But she is stopped by a tall figure in armour.

“Look who’s come out to play.” Sandor. She beats the impulse to wrap her arms around him and never let go. But they cannot be seen. At a second glance, his appearance shocks her. His eyes are dark and heavy, like he has not slept in days, as they scan her body and she can smell the sour wine on his breath. He has been drinking again, she thinks. A small part of her is aware that she is one of the reasons that push him into the flagons of wine, not willingly though. But a small sense of guilt still lingers.

His voice pulls her out of her musing. “You think the king wants his little prize out wandering alone?”

Of course he has to mention Joffrey. And did he call her a prize? The tears sting behind her eyes anew. Why does he feel the need to punish her for his own misery, for something that is not her doing?

“I’m going back to my chamber, Ser.” she replies with a throaty voice, keeping up his play with a formal tone. Her eyes dart to the corner of the stairs. They cannot risk to be heard. She desperately avoids the look that bores into her. She will not let him see her tears.

The silence that stretches between the two is not the usual silence they sometimes enjoy, the calm companionable silence between two people that don’t need to speak to each other in order to hear. It is the angry silence from before in her solar, the taut silence of unspoken words that no-one wants to hear.

“You’re almost a woman. The king will be having you soon, taking you into his _bed_.” It is the alcohol making him say these things out loud, yet the satisfied grin on his face makes her desperate to smack him. _You’re not meant to be here. You are meant for him and one day, he will come and collect his prize. I will not always be able to stand between you and him._

I am a woman! She wants to cry. Or did you forget? I am woman by your hands!The lump in her throat cannot be cleared by her faint attempt at swallowing it down. Revulsion washes through her as images of her upcoming wedding night flare up in her mind, Joffrey atop of her, his hands, his skin, so close to her. She is glad it was Sandor who made her a woman, it was her own choice to give herself to him – why does he need to soil this? Irritation mingles with anger inside her belly and she has to swallow the retort on her tongue. A very childish thought inside her head wants to anger him for bringing up the inbred little bastard.

_I will never give him what I gave you._ “My wedding night will be the happiest –”

His hand snatches forward to grip her elbow almost violently, the hatred in his eyes mirrored in his muscles. “Stop that!”

She shrieks with his sudden aggression and flinches at his touch. “You’re hurting me, please, Ser!”

“Ser?” For the first time, she can spot something very close to misery in his eyes.

“I’m a dog, remember? The king’s dog. And you’re his bird.” She painfully remembers his words from last night. They both belong to Joffrey – and not to each other. They never will. She is not Sandor’s little bird, no matter how often she tries to be. The realization settles in the emptiness of her stomach.

As quickly as he let his guard drop, the mask of rage is back on his face, supported by the haughty tone of his voice. “Would you sing a song for me, little bird? A song about knights and fair maidens?”

_The world is not one of your songs, little bird. There are no happy endings._ “Come on, sing!”

Try as he may, he will never scare her. Not when she can feel the desperation and fear that beats in him as well as in her. A knight he might not be, but he is just as lost as her. She doesn’t know whether that wants to make her cry or laugh. “You won’t hurt me.”

He senses his defeat. His upper lips curls in an attempt at his signature snarl. “Sing!”

“I don’t know any songs. Not anymore.” _I don’t know what to do._

The hand that had gripped her elbow so tightly slightly loosens and wanders down her forearm to gently touch her wrist. Sansa casts her eyes down and she can feel the rage seeping out of Sandor. He would never hurt her, she knows that. Neither would she hurt him, not intentionally. But this is not their hurt to make.

Footsteps on the stairs of the hall wake them both from their small moment.

“Clegane, what’s going on here?”

It is Tyrion. He approaches the two with determined steps. His watchful eyes immediately scan the scene before him and Sansa can see that he draws the wrong conclusion, seeing the fearsome Hound engulfing the young Stark girl against the wall. Sandor’s hand pulls back from her and his hair slightly waves as he turns to face the little man.

“Never mind Imp. I was just... taking the little bird –“ His loss at words is luckily explained by Tyrion’s wrong assumption at having caught the Hound disturbing the lady.

“I’ll see to the lady. Go and find a tree to piss on.” In any other situation, Sansa would have been thankful for Tyrion’s intervention, but not now. Too many unspoken things hang between her and Sandor in the air. But Sandor does not take a look at Sansa again and disappears through the curtains without so much as word.

Quickly, Sansa hides her disappointment and turns to her ‘saviour’. “Thank you my lord.”

She turns to return her chamber, the tears stinging anew behind her eyes.

“Lady Sansa?”

Her steps freeze mid-air and she faces Tyrion again. Does he suspect? Did he hear them and understood more than he should have?

But the little lord’s face is sympathetic and almost shy, as he makes a small but polite nod. “Sleep well.”

All Sansa can do to reply is nod. Then she hurries to her chambers, to finally free the tears.

In the corner of the corridor, hidden behind a curtain from Tyrion and Sansa as well, rests a shadow, large and tall, and he shivers with despair, his hands balled into heavy fists.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from The Fray - How To Save A Life.
> 
> The deleted scene can be found on YouTube.
> 
> While writing, I listened to the Vitamin String Quartet's cover of 'She will be loved'.
> 
> ConCrit is highly appreciated!


End file.
